I'll write a love song for every day of the week
by GorgeousGreyMatter
Summary: Reid gets his five year coin on a Monday.


Reid gets his five-year-coin on a Monday. It's a small thing, silver and oddly heavy in his palm. For the rest of the week, he lets it jingle in his pocket, mixed up with the quarters he uses to tip the barista who makes his coffee in the morning. He runs his fingertips over the grooved metal so often that he's shocked it hasn't rubbed off by the time Friday rolls around.

Hotch drives him home on a Tuesday. They don't really speak, and it's a thick kind of silence, but Reid is pretty sure Hotch is smiling, at least a bit, as he pulls away from the crumbling curb.

The first time Hotch touches him, Reid can't remember what day it is. He's bruised and woozy, and he's pretty sure he's bleeding all over Hotch's slacks. He feels a thumb brush over the purple shadow Reid's sure is takes up most of his left cheek. Hotch's mouth forms that thin, tight line that Reid knows is the reason Morgan calls him a hard-ass behind his back (and that one time, to his face).

"_Christ, why do you bleed so much_?"

"Don't know—undiagnosed hemophilia?"

He wakes up in his hospital bed six hours later with Morgan hovering at his bedside. He doesn't see Hotch for three days.

When Reid lets himself touch Hotch for the first time, it's a Thursday. They've just tackled a serial arsonist in Missoula. Hotch is scowling into an oxygen mask, while a tech-one who seems far too perky for her job-pokes at the burn on his shoulder. He goes to rip the mask off to argue with Reid about something trivial, just because he's on edge, but Reid stops him, winding his long fingers around Hotch's wrist. He doesn't let go and Hotch doesn't make him.

It's a Friday when Hotch thinks he finally sees it. They're at a bar, one of the rare nights where Garcia manages to corral them all together for a family night out. He and Rossi drink fingers of scotch at the table with Morgan and Prentiss. When Morgan goes off for more drinks, Emily gets dragged onto the dance floor by JJ and Garcia. The girls have got Reid surrounded, trying to cajole him into dancing, and Rossi's laughing because Reid looks like a deer-in-the-headlights. Under the gaudy, neon lights of the club, Reid's skin seems luminous, and his eyes are so dark, Hotch doesn't think he even looks real. Prentiss whispers something in Reid's ear, ad he laughs, baing the white column of his throat. When Hotch finally manages to tear his eyes away, Rossi is watching him, bemused.

"You know, it makes sense," says Rossi, finishing his drink, "that Reid gets proposition by every prostitute we talk to."

"_Shut up, Dave_."

Hotch kisses Reid on a Wednesday. It's barely even dawn, and they've flown all night, just to get back from a grueling case in Oregon. The sun has barely come up—it's not that bright yet. Everything seems pale, washed out under the sickly, yolkish yellow of the pale morning sun. Reid's eyes look heavy, lidded; he's the only one who can ever fall asleep on the plane. Hotch notices the younger man is sort of off-balance, like he's trying to keep himself upright.

"I'll drive you home," says Hotch. "You look like you're going to fall over."

Reid smiles, nodding, before following him out to the parking garage. Hotch loads their bags while Reid watches, leaning lazily against the car, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. Reid's cheeks are flushed pink from the wind, and Hotch doesn't understand how someone can just walk around and look like Reid does and have no idea…He knows Reid can't perceive himself that way. Reid doesn't have any idea. That he's _beautiful_

Hotch knows that he shouldn't, that he should step away, keep his distance, but he can't. Doesn't want to. He takes one of Reid's hands, running his thumbs over the smooth palms, and when he feels the shiver run down Reid's arm, he can't help feeling a little smug.

"Cold?"

"Mmm," is all Reid says. He's looking down at his feet and he's biting his lip in that way he does, when he's nervous, when he's thinking—when his brain is in overdrive and he's light years away from where he's standing. He's so close, Hotch thinks he could count every fluttering eyelash.

"What are you thinking about?"

Reid looks up, and Hotch is startled to see he matches his gaze directly.

"I'm waiting," he says.

"For what?" asks Hotch.

Reid doesn't answer, but he steps close until he's flush against him, their fingers entwined in the folds of Hotch's jacket. And Hotch's heart is hammering in his chest, and he wonders if Reid can somehow feel it too, hear it. How could he not? It feels like it's bursting right out of him.

There's a split second of panic, but then he sees it, written plain across Reid's face—desire. Reid _wants_ him. There's nothing else to do after that but kiss him. He pulls Reid in, crushes their mouths together, and it's messy at first, a little uncoordinated. Their teeth click together, but when he feels Reid's body melt against him, they find a rhythm and it's so good. It's unbelievably good. He parts the seam of Reid's lips, licking into his mouth until he tastes coffee and toothpaste and something distinctly spicy—something distinctly Reid.

They break apart and Reid's gasping for air, letting out this noise, a sigh, like a soft mewling sound. Hotch wants to devour him.

"God…" is all he can say, breathing it into the strands of Reid's hair.

"Took you long enough."

Hotch laughs for what feels like the first time in years.


End file.
